by Conrad Allen
“You will be, Maxine.”
“Not at the end of next week. The whole idea will have gone flat by then.”
“Calm down, will you?” he soothed.
“How can I be calm when you’ve ruined everything?”
“I did exactly what you told me, Maxine.”
“But you didn’t!”
She flung herself into a chair and folded her arms. Gilpatrick let her sulk for a few minutes before he tried to appease her. His wife was not easily won over. It was only when he promised to rearrange her public performance that she softened toward him.
“Try to do it properly this time, Rance.”
“I will, honey,” he said. “I will.”
“There was I, telling Jenny how wonderful it was to be married to a man who waved a magic wand and got things done—and this happens!”
He stiffened. “I made a mistake. How many times have I got to apologize?”
“None,” she said, seeing his temper rise and quelling it with a kiss on the lips. “Now that it’s been sorted out, we can forget it and go to lunch. By the way, I invited Jenny to join our table.”
“As long as she doesn’t drag that Fay Brinkley along.”
“She won’t do that. Jenny could see that the two of you didn’t get on.”
“Good. I like to eat food among friends.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” she asked, slipping her arm through his. “I’m starting to feel hungry again.” They left their cabin and walked toward the stairs. “I didn’t mean to get so riled up with you just now.”
“You had no reason.”
“Yes, I did. The truth is that I had a job to persuade Jenny to be my accompanist. She got cold feet, said she wasn’t up to my standard. There’s no way that I can keep her interested until the end of next week. She’d pull out on me.”
“So? Find another pianist.”
“I want Jenny Masefield.”
“Use the guy from the orchestra.”
“We make a better team,” said Maxine happily. “Think about it. Two gorgeous women, dressed in our finery. We’ll have the men eating out of our hands.”
“They’re first-class passengers, not patrons in a saloon.”
“That’s why I want to sing to them, Rance. I’m moving up a few levels.” She gave him a nudge. “Don’t you like to hear your wife being applauded by an audience?”
“If that’s what you want,” he said wearily, “that’s what you’ll get.”
“Thank you! We’ll have our first rehearsal today.”
“You really think Miss Masefield is up to it?”
“Of course,” she said confidently. “Jenny needs a spot of practice, that’s all. She’s good for me, Rance. I like having her around. We had a lovely long talk over breakfast.”
“What about?”
“The recital, mainly. But she also wanted to talk about us.”
“Us?”
“Yes, how we met. What our plans were.”
“Did you find out what her plans are?”
“She told us. Jenny’s having a long vacation.”
“On her own?”
“Why not?”
“Women like her don’t stay alone too long, Maxine. They’re like magnets. They attract men without trying. What’s her game?” he said. “Is she trying to hook some rich guy for the fun of it? Is she looking for a husband?”
“You’re always so suspicious.”
“With good cause,” he said gruffly. “Genevieve Masefield is after something. I want to know what it is.”
While he searched the cabin, Dillman was troubled by a profound sense of guilt. He regretted all the criticism he had made of Father Slattery, and he was sickened by the thought that he had been asleep nearby in his own bunk when the priest was murdered. Rutherford Blaine’s joking remark also returned to haunt him. Blaine had expressed the wish that Slattery remain in his cabin for the duration of the voyage. That, in essence, was what would happen. The priest would be in no position to upset anyone now. Dillman felt another pang of remorse when he picked the Bible up from the floor and turned to the page with the bookmark in it. He found himself looking at the first psalm and saw that the last verse had been underlined in pencil.
For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous: but the way of the ungodly shall perish.
As he put the Bible on the table, something fell out of it and fluttered to the ground. It was a piece of white sketch paper that had been folded twice so that it could be slipped into the book. Opening it out, Dillman saw a portrait of Father Slattery. It was uncannily accurate, and showed the priest holding forth in front of a group of Chinese passengers. Dillman had seen the work of the artist before. It was very distinctive. He did not need to decipher the scrawled initials at the base of the drawing. The portrait was clearly done by David Seymour-Jones.
SEVEN
Willoughby Kincaid timed his move well. After watching her throughout luncheon, he waited until it was almost over before he crossed to her table. Genevieve Masefield was sitting with the Gilpatricks and their friends. She looked up in surprise when the tall, elegant, beaming Englishman suddenly materialized at her shoulder.
“Do excuse this interruption,” he said, offering a general apology to the rest of the table. He bent over Genevieve. “Miss Masefield?”
“Yes,” she said warily.
“You won’t remember me, but we met at Lord Wilmshurst’s house.”
“Oh, I see.”
“My name is Willoughby Kincaid,” he said, offering his hand. “I could hardly forget you, Miss Masefield. You look as radiant as ever.”
“Thank you.”
She shook his hand in the hopes of getting rid of him, but Kincaid hovered meaningfully. Genevieve had taken an instant dislike to the man. Even without Dillman’s warning about him, she would have kept Kincaid at arm’s length. The fact that he knew Lord Wilmshurst was an additional reason to steer clear of him. Her new suitor was sleek and presentable, but she was not taken in by his old-world charm. Maxine Gilpatrick, on the other hand, was drawn to him. Kincaid capitalized on her interest.
“And you must be Mrs. Gilpatrick,” he said, turning to her.
“Why, yes, I am, as a matter of fact.”
“A famous singer, I hear.”
Maxine laughed. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Mr. Kincaid.”
“I would,” said Gilpatrick loyally.
“I’m told that you gave the other ladies a real treat in the boudoir,” said Kincaid. “Why deprive the rest of us, Mrs. Gilpatrick? A voice as fine as yours should be heard on the stage. However,” he went on, taking a step back, “I didn’t come to disturb you. I merely wanted to pay my respects to Miss Masefield. Perhaps we could talk later?” he said to Genevieve. “I’m sure we’ll have lots to discuss.”
And before she could even reply, Kincaid turned on his heel and headed for the exit. Genevieve was annoyed and discomfited. When she lived in England, she had spent years fending off men like Willoughby Kincaid, and thought she would be safe from such overtures in the Pacific. Kincaid was a definite problem. He was not merely persistent, he was resourceful. How he had found out about the song in the Ladies’ Boudoir, she did not know, but he had flattered Maxine to great effect and she was still smiling.
“Where have you been hiding him, Jenny?” she teased.
“I don’t remember Mr. Kincaid at all.”
“Well, he remembered you. Where did you meet him? At a party?”
“Probably.”
“And who was this Lord Wilmshurst that he mentioned?” said Gilpatrick with curiosity. “I didn’t realize that you ran with the blue bloods.”
“I don’t,” replied Genevieve. “Lord Wilmshurst was a friend of a friend.”
“You obviously have some pretty classy acquaintances.”
“Yes,” said Maxine with approval. “Like that Mr. Kincaid. He’s a real gentleman. I’m not surprised that he moves among lords and ladies. He’s got style.”
“Maybe we should invite him to join us for dinner,” suggested Gilpatrick.
“Why not, Rance? It could be fun.”
“Yes, honey. Someone to talk about old times to Genevieve.”
“Please don’t ask him on my account,” said Genevieve.
“But he’s an acquaintance, isn’t he?”
“Not really.”
Maxine grinned. “I got the feeling that he wanted to warm up that acquaintance into a proper friendship. Is that what worries you, Jenny?”
“No, no,” she said. “Of course not.”
“So what have you got against the guy?”
“Nothing,” she lied, trying to sound unconcerned. “Besides, it’s not my place to interfere with your choice of dinner guests. I’d never presume to do that.”
“You do remember him, don’t you?”
“No, Maxine.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t be shy,” said the other woman, nudging her gently. “The guy is crazy about you. I could sense it. Something happen between the two of you?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?”
“Tell us about this Lord Wilmshurst,” said Gilpatrick. “Who exactly is he?”
Genevieve took a deep breath but was spared the embarrassment of a reply by the arrival of a steward. Apologizing for the interruption, he handed a small envelope to Genevieve, then walked away. She took out the card, read the message, and rose from the table with mingled relief and urgency.
“Please excuse me,” she said, setting her napkin aside. “I’d forgotten that I made an appointment. I’ll have to go, I’m afraid.”
There was a flurry of farewells before she swept away from the table. Rance Gilpatrick turned to his wife and spoke in a confidential whisper.
“Well,” he said, wrinkling his forehead, “what did you make of that?”
“I think that note was from Mr. Kincaid, suggesting a rendezvous.”
“But she didn’t seem to like the guy.”
“Maybe he’s got something on her. Who knows?”
“There’s one way to find out. We invite him to dinner.”
“No,” said Maxine. “Don’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to upset Jenny.”
Gilpatrick chuckled. “Could be interesting. Watching those two face-to-face.”
“She’s my friend. Teasing her is one thing, but I’m not having her put in an awkward position. Supposing there was something between them,” she went on. “We all have people in our lives we’d prefer to forget. I’ve got more than most. Jenny Masefield is good company and she also happens to be my pianist. I’m not playing a trick on her.”
“It’s not a trick, honey.”
“She doesn’t want him at our table. That’s enough for me.”
“Well, it’s not enough for me.”
“Rance!”
“I want to know the truth about her.”
“You only have to look at her to see that.”
“Do I?” he said skeptically. “No, Maxine. I think she’s hiding something and this guy might know what it is. Okay,” he added, silencing her protest with raised hands, “I won’t invite him to dinner. But there’s nothing to stop you talking to him, is there?”
“Me?”
“Well, he’s obviously an admirer of yours.”
“I think he was just being polite about my singing.”
“Mr. Kincaid is a ladies’ man. Anyone could see that.”
“So?”
“Take advantage of it, Maxine. Speak to him. Find out what he knows.”
Seated at the desk in his office, Mike Roebuck looked at the sketch with a morbid fascination. Father Slattery stared back at him. The purser turned to Dillman.
“Where did you find it, George?”
“Tucked away in his Bible.”
“What was it doing there?”
“I’ve no idea, but Father Slattery obviously liked the portrait if he kept it.”
“Who is this David Seymour-Jones?”
“An English artist and collector,” said Dillman. “He makes a living by writing about Japan and illustrating his work. He also sells artefacts to museums.”
“How do you know so much about the guy?”
“Genevieve had dinner with him on the first evening.”
“What was his connection with Father Slattery?”
“That’s something we’ll have to find out.” He took the sketch from Roebuck and folded it up again. “But we have more immediate priorities. The main one is to keep the news of the murder to ourselves.”
Roebuck shook his head resignedly. “We can’t do that indefinitely, George. Our priest was not a man to hide his light under a bushel. He made himself known. People are bound to wonder why such a visible presence has suddenly vanished.”
“We’ll tell them that he’s ill.”
“What if someone wants to visit the patient?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Mike. Meanwhile, we say nothing. If word gets out, it will create an atmosphere of fear and panic on the ship.”
“Captain Piercey wants to avoid that at all costs.”
“Then we have to work fast,” said Dillman. “If we can solve the crime before the truth leaks out, we’ll head off most of the problems. The passengers will still be shaken, but they’ll also be reassured that we have everything in hand.”
“Do we?” asked Roebuck balefully.
“Not yet.”
There was a tap on the door and Dillman opened it to admit Genevieve.
“I came as quickly as I could,” she said. “The note mentioned an emergency.”
“The worst kind, Genevieve,” explained Dillman. “A murder.”
Shocked to hear of the crime, she was even more shaken when she learned that Father Slattery was the victim. Genevieve thought about the luncheon she had shared with the priest on the previous day. The dislike she had felt for the man now changed into a deep sympathy. When Dillman had related the bare details, she was full of questions.
“When was he last seen alive?” she wondered.
“Not long after ten,” said Dillman. “I noticed him leaving the dining saloon. I assumed that he’d be going back to his cabin, but that isn’t necessarily the case.”
“Was he alone?”
“As far as I remember.”
“What time was the body found?”
“Around noon,” said Roebuck. “His steward came to change the sheets and put fresh towels in the bathroom. He walked in on a dead body.”
“Where is Father Slattery now?”
“Safely tucked away, thank goodness. It was quite an operation.”
“Yes,” resumed Dillman. “We moved him when everyone else was in the dining saloon. Dr. Ramirez found an empty refrigerated compartment for us. Mike and I wrapped up the body and carried it down there.”
“We felt like Burke and Hare,” admitted Roebuck.
“Did anyone see you?” she asked.
“Luckily, no. We had the chief steward and the ship’s doctor as lookouts.”
Dillman took over. “I don’t need to tell you how important it is to keep this to ourselves, Genevieve. As far as the passengers know, nothing has happened.” She gave a nod. “Now, let’s get down to business. We were invited on this voyage to keep an eye on a particular man. When a serious crime is committed, his name is bound to come up.”
“Rance Gilpatrick?” said Genevieve. “I don’t think that he could be involved.”
“Why not?”
“Gilpatrick wouldn’t draw the line at murder,” argued Roebuck.
“Maybe not,” she replied, “but he’d have no motive. He didn’t even know Father Slattery What possible reason could he have to kill him?”
“Their paths might have crossed,” said Dillman.
“That’s highly unlikely. I’ve spent time with him and his wife. Religion doesn’t feature very much on their agenda, believe me.
Rance Gilpatrick wouldn’t let someone like Father Slattery get within reach of him.”
“All the same, we can’t rule him out. Instinct tells me that Gilpatrick may not be our man, but we have to check him out nevertheless. That’s your job, Genevieve. See if there’s any kind of link between him and Father Slattery.”
“Right. What else can I do?”
“You shared a table with the priest yesterday.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Give me a list of everyone he upset.”
“My name would be at the top, George. Does that make me a suspect?”
“No,” said Dillman briskly, “but it means we take a close look at everyone else who was there. I’ll try to track Father Slattery’s movements throughout the ship. He got around. A lot of people will remember him.” He handed her the sketch. “Take a look at this, Genevieve. I think you might recognize the artist.”
She unfolded the paper to study it. “David Seymour-Jones!” she blurted out.
“It’s a good likeness, isn’t it?”
“Where did you get this?”
“It was in Father Slattery’s cabin.”
“I didn’t realize they knew each other.”
“Nor me,” said Dillman. “But it’s a connection that needs to be explored.”
“How?”
“That’s up to you, Genevieve. You know the man.”
* * *
Maxine Gilpatrick did not have to wait long for her opportunity. As she turned a corner on the upper deck, she saw Willoughby Kincaid bestowing a farewell kiss on the hand of a short, stout, middle-aged woman with a puffy face. With a winsome smile, the woman withdrew into her cabin and shut the door. Kincaid saw Maxine approaching.
“Ah!” he said, giving a slight bow. “We meet again, Mrs. Gilpatrick.”
“How did you come to know my name?”
“Your reputation goes before you.”
“I doubt that, Mr. Kincaid,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. “You don’t need to flatter me. Until this voyage, you’d never even heard of me.”
“That, alas, is true,” he confessed, hand on heart. “But I am aware of you now, and I delight in the acquaintance. My spies are very efficient. They keep me well informed.”
